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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26703910">What My Heart Just Yearns to Say</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper'>PersonyPepper</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Comfort, Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, They work it out though, a mix of game geralt's verbosity and netflix geralt's idiocy :), afraid of emotions!geralt haha, geralt is good at communicating, im proud of them, they talk!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:42:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,053</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26703910</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Who's that?" The woman mutters, clearly interested if the tone of her voice and the hungry look in her eye is anything to go by. To bed a witcher and his bard-- Jaskier smiles and hopes or doesn't look as awkward as it feels. "Friend of yours?" </i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>Geralt grunts. "We're not friends." And Jaskier really should have gotten used to it by now, nearly twenty years of trailing after Geralt and not one word of thanks, not one word to show that he's welcome. Yet, the words are like a punch to the gut, leaving him winded and breathless as his chest aches.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>363</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>What My Heart Just Yearns to Say</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The marketplace bustles in the late evening, townsfolk rushing to get the best of goods. Jaskier hums under his breath, fingers running over his lute’s strap in an unintentional fidget as he looks for Geralt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sky glows dusty pink with the threat of a setting sun when he finally finds him; white hair shines from within an alleyway, a giggling maiden pressed up against him. Ah, well-- at least his stupid mouth hadn't bursted out. Maybe Geralt hasn't noticed him. Jaskier begins to back away, feet sore from the trek to the town and from hours of worriedly looking for his friend itself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Jaskier?" Fuck, when has he ever been so lucky. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Geralt! Fancy seeing you here." It isn't, not with the woman pressed up against him, her skirts rucked up around her hips-- she eyes him, biting at her lower lip. Jaskier clears his throat, "I was about looking for lute strings, though I might catch you by the potions-- apparently not." He winks, hiding his discomfort as his fingers become more restless against the lute strap. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Who's that?" The woman mutters, clearly interested if the tone of her voice and the hungry look in her eye is anything to go by. To bed a witcher and his bard-- Jaskier smiles and hopes or doesn't look as awkward as it feels. "Friend of yours?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt grunts. "We're not friends." And Jaskier really should have gotten used to it by now, nearly twenty years of trailing after Geralt and not one word of thanks, not one word to show that he's welcome. Yet, the words are like a punch to the gut, leaving him winded and breathless as his chest aches. "Jaskier, I can smell your lies. What do you want?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And all of a sudden, he feels like the fool all bards are thought to be. "Nothing," he mutters. "Have fun with your damsel! I'll be back at the inn, performing if you--" who's he kidding, as if Geralt would come look for him, worry about him. "Right, see you tonight." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tavern is just as lively, market-goers looking for a drink and a meal, perhaps even some music-- which Jaskier is eager to provide. They pay well, his hat and lutecase filling within hours; his voice is rough by the end of the night. He chugs down half his ale as soon as he's set his lute in its case, making his way over to a broody Geralt in the far corner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Light barely reaches the table, walls shadowing them both as Jaskier plops into the booth opposite to his fr— Geralt. "Fantastic audience if I ever saw one," he says, sliding the other ale across the table. Geralt takes a sip from it, humming either in reply, or at the pissy taste. Jaskier is diligent in ignoring the fading lovebites on the witcher's neck as they retire for the night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Come morning light, Jaskier wakes to the sound of Geralt packing their bags and groans as he shoves his face further into the pillow. Geralt snorts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Get up, bard."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gets up, and they're back on the Path by daybreak. </span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt's heavy. Heavy and bleeding and </span>
  <em>
    <span>dying</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Jaskier presses his hands down into the wound, grimacing as his palm slides against the blood. Geralt's still blinking up at him, scowling as if he's </span>
  <em>
    <span>mad</span>
  </em>
  <span> that he's dying. Which, fair, Jaskier would be, too. "Hang on, Geralt, hang on," he mutters, hands steady as he wraps the bandages over the kikimore's stab. Geralt grits his teeth at the pain, eyes slipping closed and gods, </span>
  <em>
    <span>why is there so much blood?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Getting him onto Roach is an ordeal in and of itself; he's forced to sit behind him to make sure he doesn't fall as they gallop towards town, which, thankfully, isn't far away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Where’s the healer?" Jaskier demands the first person he sees, a lad that points him to the furthest house on the second street. He doesn't bother nodding in thanks, not when Geralt's breathing grows impossibly shallower and his head lolls on Jaskier's shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Help! I need help, please!" He shouts as he slows Roach to stop in front of the healer's house, helping Geralt down. "My friend's dying—" the door's thrown open, and a man with pointed ears shoulders Geralt's other side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They lay Geralt down on the cot at the edge of the room, the elf quickly gathering needles, threads, and herbs as Jaskier tells him all he knows. "Good, thank you," and the elf sets off to work as Jaskier picks at his nails till they bleed. Geralt groans in his sleep as the needle sinks into his skin and stitches him shut, eyes fluttering open before slipping closed again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes hours and a multitude of bled-through bandages to finally staunch the bleeding, Geralt's face a shade of grey-pale. "Will he be alright?" The elf, Chireadan, nods and washes his reddened hands in a basin close by. "He has a potion he takes for healing, Swallow; when he wakes, he'll ask for it. I've left his bags back in the woods." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Best you go get them." Jaskier glances at an asleep Geralt for a moment longer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Best I do," he sighs, and slips out the front door. Roach nickers and butts the side of his head, "He's alright, girl," he mutters, petting her down, "He'll be just fine. Come now." Luckily, no bandit or curious child has come across the potions, still laying in the clearing. The sight of Geralt's blood seeping into the muddy ground makes him want to be sick, but he throws their bags over his shoulders and mounts Roach without giving himself a moment to. Geralt needs him, and it's not time to be playing weak human. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt is not due to wake for a while yet, and Jaskier takes the time to find Roach a stable and get her settled in. His own heart has not calmed despite the color that slowly returns to the witcher's face as the sun sets. Chireadan takes a seat by him, staring at the wall as Jaskier watches over Geralt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He almost died. You did good on bringing him here as quickly as you did; a couple more minutes and…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does not need to finish the sentence, not as Geralt's lip twitches in his sleep, face still pallid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, he's lucky to have a good friend."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> "Thank you." Jaskier is not in the habit of denying what is true; as one-sided as their friendship might be, Geralt very much still has a friend in Jaskier.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chireadan smiles, and takes his hand into his own.</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yennefer of Vengerberg, sits on a throne beside the King of Vizima, her ring finger shining with a diamond. Jaskier, who generally hates seeing her, hates her even more as Geralt stares at her hand, his jaw tightening. Of course, she'll kill the King, take over his fortune, blah, blah, blah— all this is a ploy for power; she is an actress of the most highest regard as she presses a kiss to the old King's cheek and laughs at some likely-pitiful joke under her breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Geralt," the witcher doesn't hear him, though they are sitting shoulder to shoulder. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Geralt</span>
  </em>
  <span>." He goes to pinch him in the thigh, only to be stopped by Geralt's quick grip. The witcher peers down at him, a snarl twitching at his lips. "We need to leave." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt glances up at Yennefer from where they're sat in the grand hall, face grimm. "She looks happy." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"She's about to become Queen. About to rule over her own lands, find herself a child, her long-term wish, and kill that man. What woman wouldn't be happy?" Geralt grunts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stands, and Jaskier is quick to rise to his feet behind him. "Geralt! Geralt, wait—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Jaskier," Geralt pauses, looking at him with something soft and defeated in his eyes. "I think we should let her be," he says at last.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They return to their shared chambers for the night, the bed feather-soft and a liquor cart in the corner. Neither of them touch it as they ready for bed, the sound of the castle’s bustling servants and invited guests to the betrothal fest muffled by the thick walls of the bedroom. Jaskier blows the candle out as they tuck themselves under the duvet, and sighs as he feels cloth silken and chill against his skin in stark contrast to the scratchiness of cheap inns. Geralt turns from behind him; always doomed to share the one bed, the both of them. Not that Jaskier's complaining.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The moonlight filters through shades, casting lines of light onto the bedroom floor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why do you stay?" Geralt's question is abrupt, shaking the dregs of sleepiness that had formed at the corners of Jaskier's eyes. "Even Yennefer has left me and I treated her like a goddess— I treat you horribly, so you won't stay. And yet..."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier thinks he might punch him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns to him, eyes narrowed and thanks himself for leaving the blinds open enough to see the fucker he calls his friend. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You treat me like shit to </span>
  <em>
    <span>push me away? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Are you fucking insane, Geralt? I've stuck with you for twenty odd years," miniscule in a half-elf's lifetime, but Geralt thinks him human, and it hurts that the witcher would waste (supposedly) the prime of the bard's life being a </span>
  <em>
    <span>dick</span>
  </em>
  <span> to him, "And you've never realized that, no matter what you do, I will not leave you?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anger burns bright in his chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt hums, shrugs. "No one else has stayed." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, just like that, it is extinguished.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not even Yennefer, and she is as monstrous as I am— I found myself..." his eyebrows furrow, a frown on his lips though his eyes never look away from Jaskier's, "liking your company. Growing </span>
  <em>
    <span>attached,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> he spits out the word like its poison, "I knew you'd leave and that, to grow close to you, would be my own demise." There's a pain in his voice, a vulnerability in his gaze. "You refuse to leave, though. I do not understand." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I do not leave because you are my friend. And I, yours." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt looks up at him, voice gruff as he replies. "I've never known friendship outside my brothers. Do friends love? Do friends kiss? And wish to hold one another? Because I wish to hold you, I wish to kiss you, too. And it's..." he trails off, unsure of his words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Frightening?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Frightening, yes. To kiss and hold you, only for you to leave— I could... I wouldn’t—" Jaskier understands his pain, the decades of caring for Geralt, only to have </span>
  <em>
    <span>not my friend</span>
  </em>
  <span> thrown in his face, his affection, platonic, to be rejected at every turn. Only, loss after holding and kissing and touching is not as magnanimous. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll never leave you, I swear it upon my life, I do not know myself without your grumbling and grouchiness; I do not know myself without your monster viscera and blood; I do not know myself without your stories... without your companionship, I am no one and I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt quirks a small smile. "Ever the romantic, fool." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It is rather the height of stupidity to fall in love with a man who cannot admit that you are friends." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher's face grows somber, guilty. "Forgive me. It was unkind of me to push you away, and my fear of... of this… hurt you badly."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Never do it again and you are forgiven." Geralt nods. "Friends are kind to one another. They kiss and hold, but they do not love." His voice gives into breathlessness with anticipation, "I do think you talk of lovers rather than friends." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Lovers," Geralt echoes. "If we were lovers, would that make you happy? Would you still stay?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I would. And would you want that?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I do." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We can kiss come morning, if you'll still have me— try pushing me away again and I'll have your bollocks." Geralt huffs a laugh, but it quietens into a soft smile when he realizes the insecurity behind the words. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I won't. I won't, Jaskier. Let me hold you, lover." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strong arms wrap around his waist and pull him to Geralt's chest. Jaskier snuggles in closer, and the ever-aching pain in his chest soothes into comfort and sleep. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope that was coherent lol, i honest to gods dont know if it was trash or not but hey! yeah i have nothing to but hey lol</p>
<p>let me know what you thought!!! </p>
<p>my tumblr's @persony-pepper :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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